The End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: The death of the poet, the flower, the lover. Jean Prouvaire makes a last tribute to his beloved compatriots. Different oneshots of his death, with AU's, different POV's, and the like. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Wow. How do I even begin on this? Robespierre, my plot bunny, sort of awkwardly thrust this into my hands and I turned it into this. It's...depressing, to say the least, but I hope you'll agree that the world needs more Jehan fics. So I give you this. Please, do leave a review, it would mean a lot to me. **

**-Marseillaise**

* * *

Cold, unfeeling hands tie the blindfold around Prouvaire and he knows in his heart that this is the end. He doesn't resist, because that won't do anything. Instead, he allows his hands to be tied cruelly tight behind his back, not a sound escaping his lips.

A soldier approaches on either side of him, each grabbing an arm. Such as this, they march him to a place between the barricade and the ranks of the National Guard. He stumbles blindly along, but the soldiers do not allow him to fall. Their hands grip his upper arms tightly, and somehow the touch of another living being, even one who is about to kill him, is comforting, because Jehan Prouvaire doesn't want to die alone. He will- of course he will, and he will die well, but although he went along with the revolution perfectly aware of what might be the result, he wants to die among his compatriots, among his friends. Instead, he is to be shot, and his very death used to demoralize the ones he wishes to fight alongside. He holds his blindfolded head high as he is marched to his death.

It's Courfeyrac who sees him. "They have Prouvaire!" he shouts frantically, scrambling down from his post on watch. He thinks only of his friend, disregarding the painful slide as he missteps.

Combeferre hears the centre, and turns to Enjolras. The guide and the leader realise quickly that possibly, they can exchange hostages. Combeferre fumbles and yanks out of his waistcoat a white handkerchief that they can use for a flag.

The attention of the entire barricade has been diverted now, and anxiously they watch as Combeferre knots his handkerchief shakingly onto the tip of a musket.

The guide's hands are sweaty, his breathing faster than normal as he affixes their makeshift flag of truce. He has always been the rational one, the one who can quell arguments and see through to the calm even in the darkest storm or argument.

But there has never been anything so serious. The guide refuses to believe that calm, cold voice inside him that says what he will deny until it is too late, the voice that says there is nothing he can do. Because Combeferre cannot stand being useless. He has always been there to comfort, to care, and to guide. He didn't like violence, he simply believed it the only way to achieve the future. Combeferre liked to know things, liked to be certian. So as shaking fingers tied the handkerchief around his gun, Combeferre felt the very first inkling of doubt seep its way into his mind.

Enjolras waited impatiently for Combeferre to finish their truce flag. As the leader, he felt responsible for each of his friends, and not only that, but he knew that any of their deaths would haunt him. He had already done the unthinkable, murdered an innocent, the artillery officer who was no older than him and certianly just as inexperienced. And he had killed Le Cabauc simply as an example. Enjolras knew that he, himself would not leave the barricade alive, but he could try with all that he was so that his friends could.

And that was when the drums sounded. It was all extremely official sounding, and Jehan thought to himself that they were simply humanizing an inhuman event. They were taking the cold-blooded murder of youth and turning it into a ceremony of death.

The drums sounded like a beat, low and steady and not too fast. Jehan felt that in these, his final moments on earth, he should remember. Remeber the times of happiness. And something came floating through to him. An act of defiance. A song.

As the drums came to a halt, Jehan sang in a thin, clear voice that was gently picked up by the wind and carried to the waiting ears of those who cared about him.

_Allons, enfants de la Patrie, (arise, children of Patria)  
La jour de gloire est arrivé (the day of glory has arrived)  
Contre nous de la tyrannie, (against us is tyranny)  
L'étendard sanglant est levé...(and they have raised the bloody flag...)_

The officer looked at the small, fragile looking young man that sang defiantly at the face of Death. He felt sorrowful, for it seemed truly a sin to extinguish such a flame. He bowed his head. The figure, bound and blinded, was hardly more than a boy. He swallowed hard and thought, forgive me. Then he raised his arm. "Aim!"

Jehan stopped the song at the sound of the officer's voice. Without thinking, he uttered words that he hoped would serve to inspire his companions, his compatriots, his friends. "Vive la France ! Vive l'avenir !" he cried wildly.

Closing his eyes, the army officer whispered, "fire." Nothing happened. Opening them again, he snapped loudly and with wild abandon, "fire!"

The answering reports rang out, and through the echoes, he heard the unmistakeable thud. The street was silent for perhaps five seconds, as if out of respect for the body that undoubtedly now lay there in a pool of scarlet.

When the smoke and haze cleared enough for the corpse to be distinguished, the barricade seemed to mourn as one.

Enjolras dropped his gaze, feeling the weight of Jehan's death wash over him in agony. The youngest of the group, the flower, the boy that radiated love and who undoubtedly had someone who had stayed up by candlelight, hoping and praying for his safe return. Perhaps it was a mother, a father, a lover, or any number of the souls whose lives the poet had caressed. Enjolras sank to the ground as if feeling the weight of it all come crashing down on his shoulders and pinning him to the ground, not even allowing him to stand amongst his brothers he had doomed to die.

Combeferre was staring at the lifeless young man in shock, the makeshift truce flag still clutched in his grip. The guide had always sought for another option, some way to avoid violence, but this... he felt hot tears in his eyes, not bothering to blink them away. If he had been a bit faster, if they had seen his flag, if only, if only... If only it had been Combeferre instead, because Combeferre didn't have a shy young grisette who loved him as if he was the last man on earth, and Jehan did. Had. He wondered if she would find out how her lover had died, brave and alone. Would Jehan have preferred it have been Combeferre? The guide didn't have an answer.

As they sat, grieving, the most unlikely of the Amis stood up. Dully, Grantaire poured a mug of the Corinthe's finest wine and simply said, "to Jehan."

_finis_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey. So, I, as you may or may not be aware, am in love with Jean Prouvaire's death. So, because I keep writing different angles, AU's, POV's, and the like for it, I decided to make an entire fic of it. Sorry.**

**-Marseillaise**

Reeling, off-balance, Prouvaire tripped and his gun was knocked out of his hands. He fell hard, hand catching on a splintered table edge. Before the young man had time to stand up, he felt a poke in the back. Expecting the bayonet to go through him, he stiffened. When it didn't right away, he dared to look up. A young guard stood over him, no older than himself. Fresh-faced and terrified, the opposing soldier seemed as untrained and scared as the freedom fighters, but to be a National Guard, Prouvaire knew that couldn't be the case.

Hands bleeding from the fall, he slowly stood up. The guard's terrified expression was fleeting, and his eyes hardened. He took hold of Prouvaire, and it was only then that the poet realized he had fallen on the wrong side. Through the semi-organized chaos, no one would miss him.

Another guard approached, his uniform slightly bloodied, though it did not appear to be his own blood. Seeming the superior officer, he turned to the young man who held Prouvaire by a bayonet.

"Take him hostage, man, he has no weapon," barked the officer.

The guard holding Prouvaire nodded, binding his hands behind him and prodding him forward through the smoky gloom. Stumbling, the poet thought he had probably twisted his ankle, not that it made a difference at this point. Throbbing, he made it to the enemy lines before the guard behind him shoved him to the ground, not unkindly but as though he had seen the boy's clear pain with walking and was being a decent human being.

Prouvaire's heart sped up, fueled by adrenaline and fear. The same guard who had initially captured him approached again, this time holding a rag. Kneeling before the captive, he gently lifted the young man's chin. Prouvaire flinched slightly at the touch, but went along with it. Resisting, at this point, would only delay whatever it was that was to be done, and most likely heighten his chances of being killed.

He closed his eyes as the slightly damp rag of a blindfold was tied around his brows. The knot was tight though not painful; the guardsmen who held him were men after all, and not unnecessarily cruel.

He sat there, knelt, for who knows how many minutes. The blindfold pinned his hair against his ears, and the sounds of fighting were slightly muffled. Through this, he heard the conversation of his captor and the superior officer. They seemed to be discussing his fate. Straining his ears, the young man felt his muscles clench involuntarily. He did not want to die.

"-are you sure, monsieur?" They were coming closer, their voices easier to distinguish.

A sigh. Of resignment, but in his favor? Sure of what? Was he to live? Or be shot, as a traitor?

"Yes, I am sure."

"Very well."

Prouvaire, muscles still taut, waited. He felt a man on either arm pull him to his feet. They were rough, and their hands were tight on his biceps, pulling him upward. He winced involuntarily as his ankle took his weight. The two guards pushed him forward, until he reached a cold stone wall.

A wall. Prouvaire's heart sank. Was this to be his end, then? Shot against a wall. He tensed, leaning primarily on his good ankle. The guards left him leaning against the wall. He took a hesitant step forward. He wanted to die standing on his own weight.

The pain of his ankle seemed to recede in the face of his imminent death. Footsteps, arranging themselves in front of him. There was an order, but the sudden ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing it distinctly. Just syllables, running together, and then suddenly, the sound of arms.

He would not die silently.

"Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!" he cried, his final tribute to their precious Republic, to the dawn he would never live to see.

The bullets found their mark, and he was killed instantly. His slim frame was thrown back, against the wall, before it slid down to lie, broken, in a crimson pool of blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**I know, I know, I should be working on other stories. I'm sorry. But here is this. Partial idea credit to ChocolateBrownies; you should go read their Prouvaire story. Enjoy! **

**-Marseillaise **

* * *

The cannon blast shook the entire barricade, splintering the table on which Jean Prouvaire was perched. Losing his footing, he slipped and landed on the ground.

He glanced around wildly, realizing he was on the wrong side of the barricade. Another cloud of splinters and haziness plumed from where a second cannonball had made impact.

The next thing he knew, members of the National Guard surrounded him. Raising his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, he allowed himself to be led away. Smoke hazed the area, and through the chaotic mess, no one would notice him. No one would be there to save him.

When he stumbled slightly over the rough paving stones, no one bothered to steady him. One of them, a tall man with black, well-groomed hair and a goatee, even laughed cruelly. Shoving him along, the man with the goatee stepped firmly across the intangible but certainly real enemy line.

"What to do with this traitorous scum?" the goateed man asked his officer.

The officer, a war-hardened man of perhaps fifty, looked at the young man his soldiers had captured. He knew, of course, what the punishment of treason was. Death. However, perhaps the boy could be useful...?

"Your name?" he asked the hostage sharply.

"Prouvaire."

"Prouvaire, you have two options. Swear your allegiance to his Majesty, Louis-Philippe, give us any information regarding your leaders and plans, and live. Fail to do that, and die."

Jean Prouvaire stared into the face of the officer. "Vive la République," he said defiantly. Long live the Republic.

"I don't /want/ to kill you, boy!" snapped the officer. "Renounce your foolish doomed Republic, and live!"

"No. Never. Kill me. But know that you can't stop us. You cannot kill the flame of the revolution. You can't kill /Patria/." And, turning, he twisted to escape the two guards that held him facing the officer. One, the goateed guard that had shoved him previously, didn't relinquish the poet. With a grunt, Prouvaire punched him in the face using his free hand.

The other man let go, but grabbed Prouvaire before he could escape.

"Death, then."

The man with a goatee bound Prouvaire's hands, tightly, and put a blindfold on the young man.

Throwing him against a wall, eight men drew up in a line facing the poet.

"Aim," called the officer.

Suddenly, there was a shout.  
"Temporary truce!" A white handkerchief was visible, waving above the barricade.

"We have your spy, Javert. Give us Prouvaire. An exchange."

The officer looked at the bound man. "An exchange, then," he called back, "your man is unharmed."

Walking brusquely towards the hostage, the officer noticed a gun smoking. "Sinclaire?" he said, asking of the goateed man, "did you fire?"

"Yes, monsieur. I am sorry, believed the rebels' shout to be the command to fire. The hostage is not, I believe, mortally wounded. If we wrapped him in a coat, or something, he would look fine until we got our spy back."

The officer nodded. "Bring me the hostage; let us see what the damage is."

The damage was severe, although Prouvaire was resolutely holding on to life. He had been shot through the stomach, and was bleeding profusely. There was no exit wound; the bullet was lodged in the young man.

Roughly grabbing him, Sinclaire tore off the man's bloody jacket, replacing it with his own, which was of a similar color. The bleeding was masked, for now.

"He's gone unconscious. Blood loss, probably," said Sinclaire, worried not for the sake of Prouvaire but for the sake of his plan's working or not.

"Quickly! You can carry him, he has a light frame."

Sinclaire nodded, scooping up the poet and holding him easily.

As the officer, followed by Sinclaire and thus Prouvaire, approached the barricade, a brown-haired man with glasses led out an older man who looked as if he couldn't believe his luck. They were, of course, Combeferre and Javert.

"What have you done?" exclaimed Combeferre, gesturing to the limp body in Sinclaire's arms.

"Nothing. He fainted. Here." And with that, he unceremoniously dumped the young man into Combeferre's arms, taking Javert. Hastily, the two National Guards retreated with their spy, worried that Combeferre should discover that Prouvaire was mortally wounded.

Combeferre struggled with the weight of his comrade. He had opened his mouth to call for Bahorel, who was the strongest, before he realized his mistake. Bahorel was, of course, dead.

Luckily, Feuilly was there in a second, helping Combeferre. The artisan took hold of the upper half of the limp man, sharing the weight with Combeferre.

As he did so, the jacket slipped, and the profusely bleeding wound was revealed. Combeferre swore at the sight, and hastily put the poet down.

"Joly! Come, quickly!"

The urgency in his voice must have rung, and the medical student came hurriedly out of the wine-shop.

"Combeferre? Is it...oh, mon Dieu," he breathed, looking at Prouvaire's limp form, "they've killed him."

"Not yet. He still has a faint heartbeat. If we could remove the bullet, staunch the blood, bind the wound..."

Joly looked at Combeferre. They both knew the most likely course of events.

"Very well. We are short on bandages. Have you a long bit of clean cloth?"

Combeferre shook his head quietly, biting his lip and musing. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"Stupid, here we have tricolors around our waists, they must work."

Joly looked surprised but pleased. For lack of proper medical tools, he used a bayonet sanitized in fire to work around the wound. The bullet remained intact, and skillfully, Joly removed it.

Unwinding the flags around their waists, they bound the wound tightly.

"The bleeding hasn't stopped."

Joly looked over at the guide. "No," he agreed quietly.

Meanwhile, the others had formed a loose circle around the three men. Courfeyrac was resolute, almost grim, in a most uncharacteristic manner. "Will he live?" asked the center.

Combeferre looked down. "Not likely," he admitted, sounding defeated.

Suddenly, Prouvaire's eyes fluttered open. He gasped weakly. "Mes amis," he whispered. "My friends, my compatriots, my brothers-in-arms...it has been wonderful. I am glad...to have been a part...of this. Mes amis..."

He closed his eyes and went slack. Combeferre checked his pulse. Nothing.

"He's gone."


	4. Chapter 4

**I am so sorry! I keep not posting or reviewing or anything, and I apologize. Hopefully I can update Imagine and Une Histoire de Deux Vivres soon (I have the first draft of both of those) and possibly others. Thank you so much for sticking with me. This one was half-requested by TheIbis2010, so...voilà. I hope it is up to your standards!**

**Marseillaise :)**

* * *

As soon as he realized he was surrounded, Jean Prouvaire had raised his hands above his head. Failing to do so would only bring about an earlier death, there was no good in being shot, however soon. The young man was hurriedly marched across to the enemy lines. There, his hands were fastened behind his back with thin but secure ropes that bit into his wrists. He was made to stand in a dark area cloaked by the overlapping shadows of the walls and the shops. Althewhile, he had remained resolutely silent, his eyes lowered but burning.

Prouvaire's slim frame and height were to his disadvantage- the guards were for the most part taller thn him, and looked rougher. A soldier came forward with a blindfold, and tied it around the young man's brows.

Darkness eveloped him, a menacing omnipresent enemy that couldn't be beaten. Sounds, irregular and unnatural to the poet, swirled about him and jumbled together in a mass of noise. Off-balance, he reached back with his bound hands and felt the cold stone wall, damp and moss covered. The world seemed very pressing, closing in on him. Gunshots pierced through the unidentifiable veil of noise, harsh unpredictable sounds. The were loud, so loud, and he knew that they would most likely be the last thing he ever heard. This thought made his heart speed up. He did not want to die. He wanted to live, to write poetry to gaze at beautiful things, to read, to debate with his friends. But with the first gunshots earlier that evening, his world had come crshing down. C'est affreiux de pas vivre, it is frightful not to live. Slowly, the old world crumbles, and it would be enough just to help that happen. After all, if you have nothing to die for, what is there to live for?

Suddenly unsteady, the poet fell down. Breath hitching, heart beating wildly, he was completely disoriented and unable to see. Pushing himself to his knees, he turned around and stood up, finally. His slim frame was battered, fresh bruises and scrapes down his left side marking his fall. Resolutely, he remaimed silent, standing alone before who knows how many soldiers who would kill him without a moment's thought.

The man came again, and, not harshly, but with firm movements, forced the hostage to the ground. Not knowing what was going on, Prouvaire's muscles were taut and his breathing irregular. He was not afraid, per se, but confused and unsure, which is nearly as bad if not worse. A man untied his hands slightly, pulled him a few feet to the left, and rebound them again, this time to some sort of pole. Ropes, more than were necessary to hold him, were tightened around his torso and to the pole, leaving him with his back forced against it. As such, he sat for several minutes, left with his mind.

Was this to be the end, then? To die, alone and apart, trussed up like an animal and affixed to a pole. No heroic, brave death for Jean Prouvaire, just a few gunshots in the night and silence.

Suddenly, Prouvaire felt a man hold the back of his head. Bracing himself for whatever was coming, he was still unprepared for the cloth that came at his face. Struggling, he resisted the drug for as long as he could, but eventually he gave in. Swirling blackness and a strange feeling of flying, and then nothing.

XXX

"Monsieur," said the guard, "he-the prisonser- he keeps shuddering, resisisting..."

Delaine, the captian, looked over at the hostage. The young man was shaking slightly, and attempting to rise. Frustrated, he sighed. "See if Larousse can do something, and for heaven's sake keep him kneeling. You had him stnding up, then sitting down, and now he doesn't know. Traitorous scum, the vermin of France, and he doesn't deserve to live, but we shall keep him as leverage, if it is needed. The last thing we want is to have him go running off. In fact- tie him to the horse-stand by that shop."

The guard, whose name was Edouard Noire, walked over to the hostage. He dragged the young man a few feet to the left, where there was a pole for tying up horses. He used more ropes than were absolutely necessary, but he didn't want to displease the captian.

Larousse, the doctor, was a smart if somewhat narrowminded man a few years out of medical school. He had an extremely strong set of morals, and the very idea of rebelling against one's country was abominable to him. He looked up as Noire entered. "Yes?"

"This may seem like an odd request. We have a hostage, and he's gone into shock or something. Do you have anuthing that could...subdue? Subdue him?"

Larousse looked at Noire, a slight frown creasing his features. "I...yes, of course." He rummaged in a bag before producing a small amber bottle. Dabbing a handkerchief with the substance, he gingerly handed it to Noire. "This will. Make sure he breathes it in, and for heaven's sake don't breathe it in yourself."

Noire nodded. "Thank you, Larousse."

Larousse nodded, a picture of dusgust on his face. "Rebels," he muttered scathingly.

Approaching the slim figure from behind, Noire, a bit unsure how to go about it, awkwardly cupped the back of the hostage's head with one hand. With the other, he forced the handkerchief over the young man's nose and mouth.

The hostage struggled in vain for a few seconds, then went slack, falling limp against the ropes which held him. Noire breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, there was a cry from the barricade. "Monsieurs! You have our man; we have your spy. An exchange?"

Noire turned to Delaine. The captian's face was creased in a frown, but he nodded eventually. "An exchange," he said at lasr.

Calling back to the barricade, "an exchange, then. Come out in the open! We won't shoot."

"How can we be sure?"

"You must trust me. On the honor of my King. Though, considering you all are traitorous scum, that might not mean much. But rest assured, we would not shoot you. You have our man."

There was a moment's pause, and then Javert was led out by a slim man with brown hair and glasses. Noire then bent down to untie the limp figure attatched to the post.

As soon as Noire was finished, the captian ordered him and another, deValles, to carry the boy.

Grunting slightly, Noire lifted the hostage's torso. DeValles gripped his legs, and the two methodically carried the boy to the midpoint of the barricade and the enemy lines.

"What have you done?" was the strangled cry of the brown haired one escorting the spy.

"Nothing serious," said Noire calmly, "just- ethyl, I believe it was. He will be fine when he wakes up."

The bespectacled student shook his head in disgust and anger. "You drugged him so he would be easier to kill?" he said, his voice low and shaking with anger.

Noire and deValles put the boy down on deValles' word.

"And you were going to spare him?" asked Noire. "Your man would have felt nothing. War is not merciful, traitor."

The other man clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Stooping, he picked up Prouvaire, staggering slightly under the weight. Back to the barricade, and Noire with deValles and the spy back to their lines.

XXX

Combeferre, carrying the slight boy back to the barricade, felt Prouvaire's pulse and reassured himself that his friend was, indeed, alive.

Feuilly rushed to Combeferre as soon as he was past the omnibus. "What happened?" the Polish fanmaker cried, "we watched you from the barricade. Is he-"

"No," said Combeferre, "he isn't dead." Lying the poet on the ground and tugging off the blindfold, he turned to Joly. "He's been drugged. Do we have anything that could help?"

Joly looked stricken. "Nothing proper, per se, but this is a wineshop. Brandy, perhaps."

Bossuet had already entered the Corinthe in search of brandy. Silently, he returned and handed it over. Joly uncapped it and waved it under Prouvaire's nose, while Combeferre held the poet somewhat upright.

Gavroche, looking from around Courfeyrac, was solemn. He closed his eyes, eyes that had already seen much too much. Courfeyrac put an arm on the boy's shoulder.

Suddenly, Joly gave an excited cry. Jehan's eyes fluttered, and opened.

Shakily, the poet sat up. Upon seeing his friends, alive, he made a noise.

"I...they were going to kill me," he whispered. "The last thing I remember is being tied to a pole and having something shoved into my face..."

Enjolras, looking at Prouvaire, said angrily, "we treated their spy with respect, to the best of our ability. And they have hurt you, they have hurt you badly, they have drugged you, even." His eyes blazed with anger, and he turned away. "As if it is not enough to kill a man, they must also torture him."

"I pity them," murmured Prouvaire.

The others turned to look at him, surprised that he of all people should say that.

"I pity them," he repeated, "because they have families, too. Because they are not so different from us, they just believe in a different way of running the country. And perhaps they have never seen the poverty, but perhaps they are just going along with what they believe is right? I do not want to die, but I shall, and so shall you all, but we are doing it so that people may see, that they may realise what we do is good."

The ragged group of about thirty five men were looking silently at the man who had just spoken.

Enjolras nodded, saying quietly, "it is a terrible thing, what we do. But we do it so that, in the future, no one will have to."

A few scattered claps. Prouvaire stood up and was handed a rifle.

"Courfeyrac," said Enjolras, "you take the watch."


End file.
